So I’ve been thinking about what Andre Dubus talked about in this little interview, I can’t quite decide whether it is something I agree with whole-heartedly, half-heartedly or not at all. Which isn’t to say I need to do any of those things, I could as easily just admire it heartlessly, but I think I want to have an opinion on this.
Years ago, fewer years than I wish, and more in some ways, I posted this poem I wrote called “Bulldozer Prints” on a site called Alsopreview. It was a great site, and I truly admired many of the poets there. They were widely published, deep thinkers, serious about the craft, and generous with criticism. It was a hard place not to like.
I say that in all sincerity, in many ways, everything I am now I owe to them – whether that is good or bad, I leave it for everyone else to judge. When I posted the poem, I have to say, I was more proud of it than anything else I’d ever written. Which, of course, made it all the more difficult to hear from all of them that there was “Not a single line worth salvaging from this mess.”
That horror and embarrassment let me down a very difficult path of self-examination. How could I believe I had written such a great poem, when it was so bad? How could I be so clueless and foolish? How could I ever post another poem in public after such an unbelievable humiliation? Could I improve even if I wanted to? Did I want to?
For the next few months, and pretty consistently ever since, I started to read poetry, read poetry text books, and read poetry commentary and criticism. I made it my mission to try each form, and then try it again. I played with sounds, I played with thoughts, i played with forms. I emulated each poet. I tried every prompt I could find.
I took to heart a few basic concepts, the first of these is this:
1) Practice does not make perfect, perfect practice makes perfect.
Writing a thousand sonnets does not make one a master of the sonnet, writing a thousand perfect sonnets does. Since I have yet to write even one perfect sonnet, I can not claim to be an expert.
Since I will never be perfect, perfection can not be the goal. Practice is therefore an exercise in moving toward perfection, rather than a constant repetition of it. I grow as I go, but only in as much as I am willing to accept my own imperfection. I must accept it, and recognize it. I must recognize it, and be willing to change. I must change but willing to hold on to those flaws that make me most perfectly me. I must accept that the most perfect me is by nature imperfect.
2) 10,000 hours working on a craft are required before any expectation of expertise. (Something I’ve read a thousand times, but don’t seem to be able to source adequately)
Thousands of poems, and at least 10,0000 hours spent working on my craft, and I am still not sure if I would claim any level of ‘expertise.” I think I am a passable poet, and getting better. That seems to fulfill some need in me – not the poetry, the ‘getting better.’
3) There are 4 stages before mastery. Unconscious incompetence, conscious incompetence, conscious competence, and unconscious competence. (also, not mine, I read that somewhere, not sure where)
I am not sure where I am right now. Sometimes, I think I’m competent, others I fear I’m just unaware of my incompetence – the most terrifying prospect of all. I think it’s safe to say though, that my ‘epiphany’ with “Bulldozer Prints” lead me on a quest that has brought me to at least some level of competence – and there is hope of mastery some day.
4) Only a fool believes he knows everything he needs to know.
Socrates and a lot of others have gone on about ‘the wise man knows he knows nothing’ and there’s a lot of truth to it. But my take-away here is less that anyone ‘knows nothing’ and more that we all need to keep learning. We all need to accept that we NEED to know more. That we can learn more. I feel like Dubus’s talk about receptivity and open-ness strikes to this point. Humility is one of the most vital aspects to any sort of writing. But as I’m thinking about ‘humility’ and it’s relationship to writing, I think it’s important to understand it more intimately than some sort of spiritual self-deprecation.
I think that in the craft of writing, humility is a concept of internal incomplete-ness. A writer isn’t suffering the sort of humility that thinks, “I am unworthy” or “I know nothing,” but instead the kind of humility that understands the infinite value of each perspective, each spirit, each thought, each idea – right and wrong. I am no better AND no worse. My value is as infinite as each life around me – which means I must respect each thing as much as I respect myself.
If a writer can not see the value of their own ideas and self, then the very act of writing is one of futility and foolishness. Writing is, by its very nature an act of ego. An imposition of self upon the universe at large.
5) Dubus mentions Capote’s quote, “A writer must write cool and detached as a surgeon.” This is the hardest truth of all for me. It was the last wall for me to break through with my writing.
After the devastation of finding out that not only hadn’t I written a good poem, I was completely unable to discern good from bad poetry, I was right on the cusp of giving up entirely. Why didn’t I? I suspect, because some part of me believed there is something in me worth sharing with the world, and since I have no other skills of note, writing was my only hope. Which led to the question, What do I want to say?
Writing is, after all, first and foremost, the act of taking some feeling, some thought, some concept or construct and inserting into the mind of an audience – be it an external audience or a future self. What feelings, what thoughts, what concepts did I – DO I – want to insert into your mind?
Once I realized that I do, in fact, want to share certain things, the NEXT question is, “What is the most effective way to do that?”
One thing became clear immediately it is more complicated than saying, “The proper words used in the proper order with the proper punctuation.”
“Proper” words are different for each person and each word affects each member of the audience differently based on their own personal experience. This means that it is not enough to spew out words in the moment and expect them to have an impact of any particularly sort. Words must be considered, chosen with precision and attention to the most minute nuances.
Beyond simply finding the ‘right’ or perhaps, more accurately, ‘most effective’ words, one has to determine the best order. And order is not only an implement of meaning, but of impact. Rhythm, cadence, density and timing all figure in to the affect and effectiveness of the writing.
So, years later, in a 180 degree turn around, I find myself searching for the most dispassionate state of being in order to write my most passionate poetry and prose.
Detachment and silence have become necessities in my writing process.
And the final point that I learned all those years ago is this:
6) As Frank Herbert said in Dune,”Fear is the Mindkiller, the little death that brings total oblivion.” If I wish to be a writer, I must let fear roll over me and through me and around me. And let it reveal all of those thoughts, desires, images, feelings, dreams and ideas that are at the very core of my essence. To be a writer is to accept the fear, and let it reveal me – naked and completely at the mercy of the audience.
Even as I write this, I am reminded of the courage it takes to be a writer. The admiration I have for all of those that take the time to craft words and release them for my careful perusal, knowing full-well that I am looking at them and knowing them in the most intimate way two souls can be known to each other – through words.
Yes, even these words are scary to share. And that fear, and that courage, and that openness and receptivity and humility, that is what I am striving for every GOD damned day for the last decade or more.
